Recently, I have been enjoying short videos of school programs and must say that some of them are truly amazing. But I want to return to a bygone era when school programs meant far more.
In the days before televisions became common, people in small towns depended on all kinds of programs for entertainment. Women’s clubs, PTA meetings, Ladies’ Aid meetings at churches-none of these programs would be complete without some form of entertainment by someone playing an instrument, singing, or doing a recitation. Most families lived in relative isolation on farms connected by gravel roads, and social opportunities were limited to church, school, and trips into town for groceries or to have feed ground at the local elevator (feed mill.) Apart from listening in to the neighbors’ conversations on the party phone line, the only other source of entertainment was the radio. School programs were a very big deal, and teachers and parents prepared accordingly.
It’s 1957, and we are in 4th grade. Our tall blond teacher has worked diligently with our new music teacher to create a lively and meaningful Christmas program that will blend with the performances of the other grades. Our contribution is to sing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” a song we have been practicing for weeks. The song has five verses and we are to sing four of them. Our problem is simple: some of us can sing and some of us need to be in the audience. But this is a small-town grade school program, and parents want to see their children up there performing, no matter what. Those parents who can afford it have invested in new clothes so their children will look as good as possible; after all, there will be plenty of doting grandparents in the audience, just waiting to inspect their grandchildren.
I am going to wear a dress sewn by my mother, who is an expert seamstress, and Mom has given me a home permanent. My grandmother loves to see curly hair because curls mean one has enough money to be cared for at a beauty shop and Grandma is a first-generation American for whom appearances are everything. Sadly, my hair is naturally very fine and the epitome of straightness. Years later, a friend will try to put my hair into French braids and give up because it is so fine. Now my hair is positively kinky, and I can still smell the fluid from the permanent kit Mom has used. My only problem is my shoes; no matter how much I have polished them, I can’t make them look new. Shoes are expensive, and this has been a bad year for farm prices. I can only hope that I get to stand behind somebody so my Grandma can’t see my shoes. For now, I am one of the taller kids, so that will help give me a place near the back of the group.
Finally, the big night arrives. Our grade school once served as the local high school, so we get to stand on a real stage. Our teachers are sharp enough to realize that risers for grade school kids are not only ridiculous but also dangerous. It’s hard enough to keep grade school age boys quiet under the best of circumstances. Give them risers, and someone will be knocked off before the performance even starts. The classes are going to perform beginning with the first graders, followed by the second graders and so on. Once a group completes its performance, the kids can go sit with their parents. This means that my group must sit quietly together for at least 30-45 minutes as we wait for our turn to perform. That’s a long time for nine-year-olds, and the boys are already elbowing each other and trying to make farting noises with their armpits. Forbidden chewing gum is making an appearance, and teachers are frowning in a manner that should immobilize even the abominable snowman.
Finally we clomp up the steps to the stage to take our places. Our teachers have sorted us out by height and sex to neutralize potential conflicts among the males in our group. These efforts have been moderately successful; however, as we stand waiting for the piano to begin the introduction to the song, I can hear all kinds of whispering around me. I can only hope that one of these boys has not chosen to bring something totally awful in his pocket (a cockroach? A dead mouse?) so that he can drop it down the neck of the dress of some unsuspecting girl, namely me, at the wrong moment. As the piano starts, I am considering what I will do in the event of a foreign object introducing itself into my dress. Will I turn and hit the kid? It’s a tempting thought. Then we begin to sing.
I come from a family of singers; both my parents sing in the church choir and also sing while they work. But someone standing near me has evidently not had the benefit of such experience. As we near the end of the first verse, “The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing,” it’s obvious that for someone the world is NOT lying in solemn stillness, but in an agony of cacophony. The angels might be covering their ears! So we continue.
As we near the end of verse 2, we are singing, “And ever o’er its Babel sounds, the blessed angels sing.” I can hear more babel than music around me. I sing louder, trying valiantly to maintain the tune.
We skip verse 3, for which all us are duly thankful, and plow on into verse 4, singing more loudly. Somehow, those of us with tin ears are succeeding in drowning out those of us who can actually sing. Our teachers are looking beseechingly at us as we crash into the words
“And ye, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing.
Oh, rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!”
By this point, our teachers undoubtedly feel that they are beneath that crushing load and wish that they could rest beside the weary road, but we have another verse.
All of us realize that this is verse 5 and that we are nearly THROUGH with this thing! Spurred on by that thought, we all but scream “For lo! the days are hast’ning on, by prophet seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years shall come the time foretold
When Christ shall come and all shall own the Prince of Peace, their King,
And saints shall meet Him in the air, and with the angels sing.”
We look triumphantly at our teachers. We have MADE IT! We are through! We don’t wave at our parents, although we would like to. We file off the stage, tripping down the stairs, and wait while the fifth and sixth graders perform before we all receive cylindrical boxes of “Twenty Mule Chew” molasses candy, the annual gift from Mr. E.W. Houghton, the owner of three lumber yards, and a staunch supporter of the local school system. That candy will practically glue our teeth together, but we are grateful for the candy and for the fact that we have SURVIVED! We have not disgraced our families by fainting on stage or tripping or having a costume failure or running off to go to the toilet. And Grandma never even looks at my shoes but only admires how curly my hair is. (She should! I look as if I have stuck my finger in an electrical socket. I am frizz personified, and I hate it. I am praying my hair grows out quickly!)
And so another Christmas program has ended successfully. The parents go home content that their progeny have performed well. The teachers go home to well-deserved long winter’s naps. And finally, the world lies in silence, waiting to hear the angels sing once more.
Many of the performances tonight have been anything but stellar. But the community has come together to support its children and to celebrate Christmas. Blessedly, we cannot see into the future. We don’t know that the beloved building in which this program has taken place will eventually have to be demolished because it contains asbestos and is no longer needed for a dwindling rural population. We don’t know that some of the boys on the program tonight will fight and die or be wounded on distant battlefields. We can’t see other tragedies waiting to befall our little village. But what we do share is love and a sense of belonging, a sense of security. And for tonight, that’s enough. The snow is falling as we leave, and we know that come morning, everything will look fresh and new, like the hope of Christmas. It is that hope that will carry us forward. May you share that hope this Christmas!
Burunche's Blog 
December 26, 2023 at 3:00 pm
Very Nice Memories!! Thank You for sharing!